stay don't go
by the hikikomori life
Summary: If he didn't know better, he'd have said Hibari was waiting up for him.  It's a pleasant-enough dream to have.


**The opposite of love is not hate - it's indifference.**  
- Elie Wiesel

The key slips a little as he opens the door, scraping clumsily against the keyhole. Yamamoto knows he must be a little bit drunk, because for three whole seconds, he'd seriously considered calling Hibari to let him know he'd be late. Then he came to his senses, because Hibari had caller ID and there was no way in hell he'd pick up. He steps deftly over the threshold, and calls into the dark and silent apartment,

"Hibari - I'm home."

No answer is forthcoming, but then again, he wasn't expecting one. He treads lightly down the hallway; at the end of it, illuminated by moonlight filtering through the wafting curtains, is the silhouette of a man seated on the couch, with his back to Yamamoto. He sits so still that, had Yamamoto not been looking for him, he might've missed him entirely.

Recklessly, Yamamoto switches on the light. Hibari, shirt crumpled, hair mussed from sleep, doesn't turn around. There's a .45 caliber pistol in his hand. He cocks it, and Yamamoto grins. Catnapping on the couch again. If he didn't know better, he'd have said Hibari was waiting up for him. (It's a pleasant-enough dream to have.)

"Is that a gun in your hand, or are you just happy to see me?"

"... Don't just walk into my house."

"Hmm? If you didn't want me dropping by, why'd you give me this?" He dangles the keys from his hand, and they clink together mockingly.

"Because I hate it when you wake me up in the middle of the night."

"Is that so," says Yamamoto, and vaults over the back of the couch to seat himself next to Hibari. Hibari doesn't move closer, but he doesn't move away, either, which Yamamoto decides to take as a good sign.

"Your eyes are gonna go if you sit here in the dark all the time, y'know."

Silence. To be expected, he supposes. He yawns exaggeratedly, stretching, and then drops an arm over Hibari's shoulders. They stiffen at his touch. Yamamoto's never been one to play games, but he's playing a dangerous one right now. Pushing Hibari, just to see how far he can go.

"Hey, hey," he says, gently, leaning in. "Haven't you missed me?" Belatedly, he realizes his breath must reek of tobacco, and alcohol. Not the most tantalizing combination. Still, for a few brief, utterly mind-blowing seconds, Hibari kisses him back...

Then he bites down, hard enough to draw a startled yelp of pain out of Yamamoto, who yanks his head back like he's been burned.

"Shit," Yamamoto mutters, gingerly touching his mouth, his torn lip. His fingers come away bloody. "At least give a guy some warning."

The safety's back on the handgun. Hibari lays it on the coffee table, and stands.

"... If you're just here to kill time, why don't you find a woman instead?"

So he says, while walking to the bedroom. Still, Yamamoto lingers behind on the couch, savoring his restraint. Savoring the fantasy that he's in control of his own actions.

- The coppery taste of blood in his mouth says otherwise. He gets to his feet, hating himself a little more with every step, and makes sure to shut the door behind him.

When he eventually wakes, with the sun on his face, Hibari is gone.

* * *

The air is damp with the aftermath of a storm. Gokudera's waiting for him under the canopy of a pizzeria, leaning casually against the glass storefront, the blackened stub of a cigarette dangling stubbornly from his lip. Yamamoto raises a hand in greeting, and Gokudera gives him a nod.

"What's the word from the boss?" he calls.

"Here." Gokudera holds a hand out.

He palms Tsuna's missive, then pockets it. There'll be plenty of time to read it later, in private. The bruises on his face are visible, shiny under the lamplight. (He's learned that "_kinky"_ is not an acceptable reply to Hibari's usual "_I'll bite you to death"_.) Gokudera glances at him, and nearly drops his cigarette in surprise.

"... The hell happened to you?"

Yamamoto just grins, and his jaw throbs. (He counts it as a blessing that tonfas are a blunt weapon, or they'd be passing messages to him in the emergency room.)

"... Let me guess. Hibari again?"

"Haha."

Gokudera sighs. He pulls the fag end from his mouth, breathing smoke. "I can't believe you're still with that guy."

The smile doesn't leave Yamamoto's face for a moment. It even looks genuine. "We're not together."

"Whatever." Gokudera flicks the cigarette stub away; it soars to land in a puddle, fizzling pitifully out. From his pockets he extracts a lighter and a crumpled pack of cigarettes, lights a new one, and strolls off down the wet pavement. "It's your funeral."

Yamamoto watches him go, without regret. It's not anything he can explain; not to Gokudera, anyway.

* * *

Yamamoto likes watching him fight. Of course, when Hibari smirks at whoever his next unfortunate victim is - when he gets that _look_ in his eye - Yamamoto's a little scared of him; he'd have to be crazy not to be. But as sick as it is, it kinda turns him on - the way Hibari's always on the verge of violence, like he can't decide whether he wants to fight or fuck.

One minute Yamamoto's head is still reeling from meeting the butt of Hibari's tonfas, the next minute his mouth is crushed against Hibari's. There's something warm and slick on his face; blood, he realizes, his nose is bleeding. Maybe it's broken. And still Hibari kisses him, slips his tongue into Yamamoto's mouth, tangles fingers in his hair and _yanks_ until stars burst behind his closed eyelids.

At last, Hibari pulls away. His blood is on Hibari's face too, dark stains around his mouth. _Like a carnivore,_ he thinks, and feels the familiar, shameful jolt of arousal in his groin.

Face flushed, Hibari draws the back of his hand across his mouth, bloodying his sleeve. He's breathing heavily. (They both are.) But Hibari turns his eyes away; something raw and beautiful has broken open, trembling, exposed, in the space between them, over the blood spatters on the carpet, and it feels _good_ - or it would, if Yamamoto could keep his mouth shut for even a second -

"You're being really cute today," he says, grinning. "Something on your mind?"

Hibari goes cold and still.

"... Shut your mouth," he says, finally, "or I'll shut it for you."

"I like the sound of that. When can we start?"

In answer, Hibari just turns and walks out. Yamamoto waits until the door swings shut before reaching up to feel gingerly at his ruined nose. _Probably not broken,_ he thinks, with relief. After all, kissing Hibari with a broken nose is just asking for trouble.

* * *

The next day, Hibari doesn't come home.

It doesn't concern Yamamoto much, at first. He makes himself dinner in the kitchen, puts the leftovers in the fridge. Sleeps alone in the bed that's too big for one person, too small for two. Wakes up. Eats the leftovers in the fridge. And on, and on. After a week or so, he sends a text - _Miss me?_, but receives no reply. Still, it's nothing to panic about. Hibari can take care of himself.

He asks Tsuna the next time he sees him. Sitting in that high-backed chair, fingers steepled in front of his still-boyish face. The boss, now - though it's still hard to think of him that way, sometimes.

"Hibari been around lately?" he says, fidgeting. Trying, and probably failing, to sound casual.

Tsuna leans back in his chair, gazing steadily at him. Calculatingly, Yamamoto realizes. Trying to determine how much to tell him - if anything at all.

"... He's doing something important," says Tsuna, finally. The closed-off look on his face stops any further inquiry in its tracks.

So Hibari won't be coming back for a while. That's fine. He's a grown-up; he can deal. At any rate, there's no reason to hang around Hibari's apartment any more. One more visit, he tells himself, just to make sure he didn't leave a tap running or the stove on, then he'll go home.

* * *

Instead, he stays. Watching TV by himself in the empty living room, eating his own stale leftovers. Leaving for work, then coming back to a still-silent house. By night, burying his face in a pillow which smells faintly of soap, sweat, and gunpowder - until the scent is gone. Over time, the leaves on the trees outside the windows turn red, orange, gold, and wither away.

The sun's coming up when a sound at the door wakes him. He comes awake immediately, scrubbing sleep from his eyes, drool from his chin. There's a little damp spot on the couch where his mouth was; he puts a cushion over it and hopes Hibari doesn't notice.

And it really _is_ Hibari, after all this time, briefcase in hand, bags under his eyes like he hasn't slept in weeks - maybe he hasn't. But otherwise, not much worse for the wear.

(The look on his face when he finds Yamamoto waiting for him in his apartment is priceless.)

"... You have ten seconds to get out before I bite you to death."

"Welcome home, honey," replies Yamamoto, taking the briefcase out of Hibari's hand with a stupid grin as Hibari steps out of his shoes. He's perfectly aware that he's pushing his luck, but there's a warm feeling in his gut that even Hibari probably couldn't beat out of him. He trails Hibari to the couch like a puppy, and then plops down beside him.

"Stop crowding me," says Hibari, looking bored. Yamamoto just grins, and slips a finger under the knot of his tie to loosen it. (Surprisingly, Hibari leans back and lets him.)

"You never said you'd be away," says Yamamoto accusingly, his hands deftly undoing the buttons on Hibari's shirt, one by one.

"Why should I have to tell you something like that?" His head lolls on his shoulders, as Yamamoto peppers kisses down his throat to his exposed clavicle.

"Haha, I know. You didn't want me to worry, right?"

Hibari lifts his head, scowling. "... Wanna die?"

Yamamoto just gives him that shit-eating grin, and leans in. "I missed you too," he breathes, against Hibari's mouth, and kisses him before he can argue.


End file.
